Too Early
by bakuraXryou4everluv
Summary: With doubts of her's and Raoul's engagement, Christine returns to the Paris Opera House to bury Erik, but when she finds him on the brink of death, still alive, will she give up everything her and Raoul worked so hard for and return to the arms of her Angel of Music, or will she be forced to face the Phantom within? Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**Too Early**

**A/N: My god I am in such a Phantom of the Opera mood. I have so many good ideas for ongoing fanfics but I feel if I start another one my few readers will shank me! TT_TT Well I hope you guys enjoy this, as cliché and boring as the idea is. lol**

**UPDATED A/N: This chapter has been edited and re-written so I decided just to repost it altogether, Thank you for your time! ^_^**

**Based off of Gaston Leroux's book, NOT THE PLAY OR MOVIE.**

**WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS**

* * *

**Chapter I**

Christine huffed as she rowed herself across the river underneath the Opera House. It had already been a great trouble finding the river, going through several wrong trap doors, as well as working up the nerve to return to the depths of such a horrid place. She gulped, looking around, half expecting her Angel to jump out from the water and drag her under, but alas, that would be sweeter than what she was on her way to do. She knew that he would do no such thing, for somewhere in these cellars (most likely in the coffin he wrongfully believed he deserved), he lay dead. She bit her lip, trying her hardest not to shed a tear for her poor Erik. Finally, she arrived at the other side of the river. She got out of the boat, nearly losing her balance as she did so. Erik had always held her hand and guided her, or better yet, carried her up in his arms. Christine tied the boat so it would not float away. She walked into the cold place that Erik had once called his (and her) home. It was pitch black- no candles- for who was alive to light them? Christine was, as she pulled a match from her bodice and ran it against the wall, starting a small spark of light. She then used it to light a single candle before snuffing out the match. She carried the candle throughout the house, lighting it as she wandered through the empty corridors that smelt so much of death.

Christine wandered through, noticing nothing had changed of the "home". The couch was still damp from where Raoul had once lain half dead; the pages of 'Don Juan Triumphant' were scattered in the same places; and the scorpion and grasshopper were sitting in the same spots across the room, the scorpion turned. Every corner she turned, she ran her hands over the familiar walls and objects that had once echoed such beautiful music, and such beautiful terror. It wasn't until Christine reached Erik's sleeping chambers that she could no longer contain her tears; for she witnessed- just as she had imagined- her Hideous Angel, her poor Erik, laying lifeless in the mass of silk sheets at the bottom of the coffin. One thing alone was different than what she imagined: a beautiful black mask, embroidered with fine gemstones, covered his whole face. Even in death, he was too ashamed of his face to let it be seen by her. She ran her fingers along his full-face mask, her tears staining the gorgeous material. "Oh, my poor unhappy Erik!"

Christine suddenly saw her reflection in a pair of familiar yellow- now bloodshot- eyes.

Both gasped, for neither had ever expected to see the other alive again.

"Christine!" he tried to shout, but alas! he was unable, due to the hoarseness of his dying voice.

"E-Erik! But how-? The Persian! He posted: Erik is Dead. I just… I do not understand-!

A low crunching sound left Erik's lips, and Christine recognized it to be an attempted laugh. "Oh that Daroga-." He paused in a fit of coughing, the "laughter" being too big of a strain on his vocal chords. "S-sorry, it would seem that the Daroga was too early."

Christine tried to smile, but instead only brought forth more tears to her eyes; she quickly wiped them away, so as not to stain Erik's mask further. His eyes widened, and reached out a bony hand to wipe her tears. However, at the last moment, he decided against it and hid his hand; not wanting to taint her precious skin with his dying, monstrous flesh.

"My dear Angel, why do you shed such tears for me? A monster does not deserve any tears but his own."

She tried to smile reassuringly but couldn't bring herself to do so. She ran her fingers along his mask, hooking her thumbs under the edges-.

"No!" Erik begged, grasping Christine's hand rather swiftly for a dying man. "Please."

"Alright," she whispered, pulling her hands slowly away from his. Erik's hands were held limply aloft in the air.

She took the opportunity to quickly remove his mask and throw it in a random direction. Erik let out a shocked and offended cry, as he reached out to the mask that was now so far from his grasp.

"Why do you do such things to me, Christine? Why do you insist on giving in to your curiosity of the horror of my face?" Tears streamed down his cheeks as he stared, eyes full of betrayal, at his beloved.

Erik's face seemed to have grown even uglier since the last time Christine had laid eyes on it. His skin looked like crumpled parchment, stretched to the point of almost ripping along his thin skull- parts of which, seemed completely visible. His cheeks were dark grey and hollow from lack of nutrition. His golden eyes had become beady and bloodshot, and his eyelids and eyelashes were nearly nonexistent. All of the hair from his eyebrows had fallen; the hair on his head was greasy, thin, and receding. His chapped and cracked lips had seemed to nearly retract into his mouth completely. The middle of his face was as free of a nose as ever, but wrinkles that seemed to look like cracks led around the hole where it should have been.

"As impossible as it sounds, I have become even more hideous in death," Erik said.

Christine ran her fingers along his hairless head and pressed her forehead against his. "I must disagree, my Angel of Music. In fact, you have never been more beautiful."

Erik tried to chuckle. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Not necessarily here," she said running her fingers along his cheek, "but here." She moved a hand to his heart. "That is where true beauty lies."

He gained the strength to laugh. "No, no, my soul has always been as ugly as my face. I am sure at one point you agreed. Is it truly possible for something like that to change in a matter of weeks?"

"It changed in a matter of seconds."

Erik had nothing to say. Although he dearly wanted to argue with that statement, it would upset his dear Christine. She noticed a longing in his eyes, giving her an idea. She wrapped her hands around his underarms and pulled his body up to her in a sitting position.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"We're going to play a song together, and we can't very well do so without you at your

"I-I can't. I'm far too weak, Christine."

"Alone perhaps, but this is why we're singing together."

Christine turned his body and moved his legs over the side of the coffin. She wrapped her arms around his frail waist and lifted him out of the coffin. He fell onto her, but was easily supported, for he was much lighter then she would've expected. Then again, it wasn't so unexpected, for he most likely had not eaten for two weeks. He probably had not left the coffin in two weeks. The fact that he was still alive was a miracle in itself.

It was then that she realized that lying in a coffin for two weeks straight meant not taking a bath for two weeks straight. And with such a lack of hygiene, that would cause a rather putrid odor.

"W-what do you mean?" Erik asked fearfully.

"We can't have a performance with you looking like this. We must clean you up, feed you, and make you properly presentable for a retirement performance," she explained.

* * *

Christine turned off the faucet and dipped her fingers into the water to test that it was not too hot or cold for Erik's sensitive skin. Satisfied with its temperature, she turned to Erik, who sat curled up, several towels wrapped around his body, trying to hide as much flesh as possible.

She reached over to him to try to help him up.

"No!" he barked. "My flesh is undeserving of your precious touch. I shall do it myself."

Erik stumbled as he tried to lean forward from the wall, trying to maintain enough strength to unsuccessfully clutch the towels closer to his body.

"Don't be silly, you can't even stand! If anything, my touch is not worthy of your skin, my Angel of Music," she stated, ignoring his protests, as she lifted him from the ground.

She draped his arm around her shoulders, her other hand moving to his now bare waist. She moved him to the tub, towels falling from his body one by one, eventually leaving him completely nude. Christine gently helped him into the tub, paying no mind to his naked body. Erik, on the other hand, noticed it completely, and covered himself the best he could with his bony hands. Christine then began to remove her own clothing, unhooking her skirts and petticoats; they fell to the ground around her now bare feet. Joining them was soon her corset covers and blouse. She was left only in her chemise, drawers and corset, the last of which she was about to remove as well.

"WH- WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" he screamed as best he could, turning away from the indecent sight of his love.

"Removing my clothing. My dress will be ruined if it comes in contact with water, and this corset is killing me. I don't plan to remove my undergarments if that is what you are so worried about," she answered.

"NO! NO! Please, my eyes are not worthy of such perfection that is your bare flesh."

Christine sighed. Some things just never changed. She walked over to him and dropped to her knees in front of him, after pulling a bar of soap from the pantry. She got it wet and rubbed it between her hands, forming a lather. She reached her hands to Erik, causing him to push himself the farthest away that he could possibly get from her in the tub.

"N-no, Christine! My eyes are not worth contact with your perfect skin, so why in any world would my rotten skin be worthy!"

"Don't be silly Erik! You can barely lift your arms! How can you possibly wash yourself? Therefore, it's up to me," she said, moving her hands to his weak shoulders as he paid attention to her words.

He let out a cry of despair as he thought of his angel's hands being so tainted by his ugly flesh. She lathered his shoulders and arms, rubbing as hard as she could without breaking skin or injuring him. Her dainty hands moved to his back, scrubbing in circular motions. Christine smiled as she heard a small moan. Her hand rubbed the soap across his chest, sides, and the ribs that bulged so unhealthily far out from his body. It was when her palms moved further down that Erik was snapped back to reality.

"No, Christine! You cannot! There- it is the worst place of all, worse even than my face. Please do not," Erik begged, tears beginning to stream down his face.

"I will not. Do not worry, my dear Erik."

He sighed in relief. Christine smiled, gathering a bowl from the side of the bath, filling it with water, and pouring it over his shoulders to wash off the soap. She then moved her target to the one thing that made Erik; his face. She placed the handfuls of soap gently against his crinkled cheeks. She moved her hands slowly, progressively covering his whole face. Erik was far too shocked to protest. To think that she was willingly touching his face… caressing it, massaging it- it was unheard of! He let out a loud moan as she stroked his face so gently and lovingly. Christine wondered if anyone aside from himself had ever touched his face

"Close your eyes, Erik. We don't want soap in them," she said, before pouring some more water onto his head.

* * *

Christine stood and plucked one of the towels from the ground, putting it over his damp shoulders. She lifted him to a standing position, keeping complete eye contact to assure him that she was not burning her eyes with such an "unsightly" sight. She wrapped a towel around his bony waist, and led him back to the coffin room.

"Where do you keep your clothes, Erik?" she asked.

He pointed a shaking finger to a large cherry wood wardrobe. She set Erik against the coffin, keeping him propped up while she walked over to the wardrobe. She opened it, and searched through the various dress jackets, shirts and trousers until she found one she liked. She chose an outfit that she had never before seen him wear: a pair of black slacks, a dark grey dress shirt, a black vest, and red bowtie.

"Alright, Erik, drop your towel," she said, walking to him with the slacks and under trousers. "I won't look," she added before he could protest.

He kept eye contact as she slipped each foot into the pant legs of his underclothing and then his slacks. She moved to put on his socks and black platforms. Whilst she did this, Erik rested his hands on her back, so he didn't collapse. She held his hands while she stood up and moved to put on his blouse and vest, tucking them into his trousers. She wrapped the bowtie around his neck, tucking it under the collar.

"Let's see if I can do this right." She laughed, moving her hand intricately to make a loose bow.

He looked down at the tie and smiled, to show Christine she had done a satisfactory job. Though she could've done terribly, and he would've done the same thing.

"So, shall we play something now?" he asked.

"No, no, no! You're far too weak for us to play together. You must eat something first. Let me make you some dinner," she answered as she slipped a pair of gloves over his hands.

"Oh Christine, I am not worth your lovely cooking-."

"Please, it would make me very happy."

He sighed. "Very well, my dear."

* * *

**A/N: So I lied, this'll be a short multi-chapter story, most likely a two-shot, but possibly a three-shot! ^_^ Enjoy! Reviews are love and inspiration people, remember that! ^_^**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

**A/N: These first few chapters are mostly going to be Christine and Erik fluff, which was actually originally what was going to make up this whole story but meh. Lol Enjoy!**

**UPDATE A/N: Reposted! ^_^ Thank you my lovely beta WanderingChild96**

* * *

Erik sat at the dining table, looking over different pieces of sheet music as Christine stood at the stove, fully dressed, cooking a stewpot. "I apologize that there isn't much to work with," he said.

"It's alright," she replied, taking a small taste of the stew. "How do you get groceries, Erik?"

"I go to the marketplace," he answered.

Christine raised an eyebrow at him, earning a laugh. "I apologize if you were expecting a more intricate answer, but yes, I go to the marketplace wearing one of my more realistic masks."

"Well, that must be a nice way to see the sunlight."

He laughed. "Hardly- I go at night."

"Well, at least you get to go outside," Christine said.

"I suppose."

"Have you chosen any music yet?"

"I believe so, but I'd like to look over a few more pieces before I make my final decision."

"Well, good," she said, setting a large bowl of stew in front of him. "I look forward to your decision."

Erik tried to have a spoonful of the stew, but his hand was shaking far too much to make it into his mouth. Noticing this, Christine pulled up a chair next to him. She took the spoon, filled it, blew on it, and brought it to his lips. He slurped it and smiled as he admired the various spices.

"Is it good?" she asked.

"Sublime!"

He would've had the same answer even had he disliked it.

She fed him the whole bowl before refilling it. "Oh Christine, I don't need that much."

"Erik, you haven't eaten in two weeks- surely you're starving; this whole pot is for you."

After feeding him the whole pot, she washed it and reached to the higher pantry to pull out a bottle of champagne. She poured a glass for each of them, and returned to her seat next to Erik. She handed him a glass and raised her own.

"I think we both deserve this right now. Cheers!"

They clanked their glasses together before downing them.

"So," Erik yawned, "shall we play now?"

"No, no, no Erik! You're much too tired! You take a nap on the sofa, and when you awake, I promise you we shall play. It would make me very happy."

Erik sighed at the addition of yet another condition that he knew he couldn't refuse. "Very well."

Christine wrapped his arms around her shoulders and led him to the sofa in the music room, giving him a bit more slack, for he had gained a much better ability to walk. He lay down on the sofa and looked up at Christine as she placed a blanket on him.

"Have a good nap, Erik," she said.

"Thank you," he said, cocooning himself in the blanket and falling asleep.

Christine smiled at his sleeping form. He almost looked peaceful in his sleep… almost normal. Her mind wandered to Raoul, her true fiancé; and soon to be ex-fiancé. Christine had far too many doubts about him and far too many feelings for Erik to go along with it. Aside from that, being with Raoul would mean she would have to give up her true passion: singing. The Vicomtess de Chagny could **never **be an opera singer. She would be giving up everything she ever dreamed of just for his love. At one time that was enough. She had gone to fulfill her promise to Erik as a way to say goodbye and fully give herself to Raoul once and for all, but the fact that he was alive was far too much of a miracle to be a coincidence. It was a sign.

She sighed. "Why?" she asked herself. "Why am I doing so much? I was just supposed to say goodbye. But now- now… Oh Erik, it was so hard the first time! How could I possibly leave you again?"

She looked up to the ceiling. "Raoul, wherever you are right now, I am sorry." She removed her engagement ring and slipped it into her bodice, feeling that she could not possibly wear it at such a time.

* * *

Erik opened his eyes, feeling more refreshed then he had in what seemed like years. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He scanned the room until he found Christine sitting at the organ, looking over the music sitting on the stand. Erik stood up and walked over to her. He pressed his chest against her back and ran his hands over hers.

"Would you like to learn a few chords?" he asked.

"Sure," she answered.

"One of the reasons my 'Don Juan Triumphant' has such an alluring noise is because of the chorus- the complicated way of using simple chords. I'll teach you a few."

He moved their hands as one, up to the highest set of keys. "Press these four keys as lightly as possible. Think of a feather."

He moved her right hand to the middle set of keys. "Next, press these keys a bit harder. Think of floating parchment. Now, hit the first chord I showed you as twelve quarter notes in cut time."

She began to do so, only to be scolded by her tutor. "No, lighter. Think of a feather, Christine. Your fingers are as light as a feather. Good, just like that. Play the notes again."

She did so.

"Alright- next, play the second chord as twenty-two eighth notes in cut time. Crescendo every note, pause for a quarter rest, and then repeat the first staff, mezzo piano. No, Christine, like parchment… lighter… too light. Yes, that's perfect. Alright, try again."

She replayed the notes almost perfectly.

"Very good! You're a natural, Christine. Next, move both hands to the bottom set, like so," he said, moving her hands.

"Hit these chords for a whole note, in cut time and at fortissimo. Now, move your hands out and do the same thing again. Very good. Try it again. Good, good… from the top. You're doing great, Christine. Try it on your own now," he said, pulling his hands away from hers. "Spectacular! Just be a bit more accurate with the intonation."

At this point, Erik was sitting on the bench with her, his legs wrapped around her body, his hands resting on her stomach and his deformed face pressed against her own perfect cheek. He bit his lip and tensed his body so as to keep himself from noticeably at the close contact between them.

"Congratulations Christine! You just played the first two bars of the chorus of 'Don Juan Triumphant.'"

"Granted, I don't know what the notes mean," she laughed, snuggling her face against his own.

Erik sighed in content at such willing body contact.

"You slept for over twelve hours, Erik," she stated.

"Oh dear, I am sorry for leaving you alone for so long," he said.

"It is quite alright. You needed the rest, but… I was scared," she said.

He looked at her in confusion. "Of what?"

"I feared that you would not awaken," she answered, tears appearing at the rim of her eyes.  
"Oh my dear, angelic Christine! I am so sorry for making you worry so."

"It is fine… for you did wake up," she said, turning to embrace him.

Erik's eyes widened, for they had been so unfathomably close before, that the way she clung to him now seemed a fantasy, unseen in even his wildest dreams.

"So, shall we play now?" she asked.

"Y-yes!" he said excitedly.

He jumped away and flipped through a few pages of music until he found the right one. Christine moved from the bench and looked at the title.

"'Deh vieni non tardar'- from 'The Marriage of Figaro'?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes, would you like to play something different, my sweet?" he asked.

"Not at all! I'm actually quite fond of the piece. I just imagined you'd have wanted to play a duet. I also wasn't aware that there was organ in the piece," she answered.

"There isn't," he said. "I transposed it. Are you ready?" He ran his hands down the keys swiftly to warm up.

"Yes, I am."

"Good, let us warm up first. Sing your ascending and descending major scales and arpeggios." He moved his hand before her swiftly as a conductor would. She followed in perfect key.

"Alright, I think we're ready. One, two, three-."

His fingers flew across the keys as Christine sung the Italian aria. She remembered watching Carlotta sing this particular song during the Opera Garnier's production of 'The Marriage of Figaro.' She was quite perfect for the role of Susana, who teased her husband, Figaro, with a fake declaration of love for the Count, to drive Figaro mad with jealousy. It made her wonder why he had chosen such a song for her to sing.

It then hit her. On the roof, when she had explained everything to Raoul… Erik had been there! This was a song for revenge against Raoul. This is what he had felt at that time.

"_Oh, my poor Erik! I'm so sorry!"_ she thought to herself.

"-Ti vo' la fronte incoronar di rose," she finished, extending the two last words until Erik finished his playing.

She looked down at Erik, who said nothing. He only sat, hunched over the organ, unmoving. Christine walked over to him and placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. It was then that she noticed his shaking… his crying.

"E-Erik!" she said. "What's wrong?"

"You came back to me," he cried. "You could've stayed with the Vicomte, but you came back!- back, to your poor unhappy Erik. I'm so happy!"

Christine smiled and wrapped her arms around his shoulder. "I'm here Erik, do not worry."

"Say you love me, Christine, every waking moment. Say you need me with you, now and always! Please, that is all I ask of you," he cried.

Christine rubbed her head against his, running her hands along his arms comfortingly.

"Erik, my dear Erik… I'd like to do something on this fine Sunday afternoon," she said, pulling away.

Erik looked at her quizzically.

"Let's go for a walk together." She smiled.

* * *

**A/N: Holy cannoli I can't believe I'm actually posting a chapter on consecutive days! This might be a sign that this story is meant for success… Or I basically had this chapter already prewritten… Yeah it's the ladder. Lol Anyway, I'm pretty sure that the major fluff end next chapter so I hope you enjoyed this one. Remember, more reviews mean faster chapter! Reviews are love!**

**P.S. Anyone recognize the dialogue from anywhere in particular? ;) **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

Erik's heart skipped a beat at the realization of how his time was being spent together with Christine. She had cooked for him; bathed him; dressed him; played music with him; and now they were to take a walk together on Sunday. It was everything he had ever wanted. Overwhelmed with happiness, he yet again burst into tears. Christine reached over and wiped them away.

"Come; let's walk, my Angel of Music," she said comfortingly.

"Yes, of course! I just need some quick preparation beforehand. I shall be back in a moment!"

He hurried to his coffin room the best he could with the weakness of his body and stood in front of his wardrobe. He opened one of the drawers in which three masks lay; one white, one black, and one looking remarkably like the face of an extremely handsome man. He then directed his attention to the faceless mannequin head with slicked back hair, black as night. He placed it on his head, adjusted it, and then picked up the realistic mask, placing it over his head and wig. He adjusted it until it looked natural enough and hurried back into the music room. Christine gasped at the irrevocable beauty of the mask and hairpiece.

"Do you like it, my Angel?" he asked.

"Y-well, it is a lovely mask, but I would like it so much more if we could walk together without a mask," she answered.

"My dear Christine, you know that is impossible. People will stare, riot, attack. All because of my ugliness. It is a privilege I do not possess," he said.

She sighed. "Well, as long as we can walk together… I suppose it is okay."

Erik smiled, though Christine was unable to see it through the apathetic face of his full mask. He stumbled over to his coat rack, taking from it a black fedora, matching dress jacket, and a black cane with a silver, skull shaped handle. In Erik's case of grabbing it, wasn't using the cane as a fashion statement as other Frenchmen did, but as a necessity; so he could hold himself up properly without Christine's assistance.

"Well, let us be off, my dear," he said, offering his arm to her.

The two left the Palais Garnier through a secret exit, completely unnoticed. The moment he stepped into the sun, he hissed at the brightness and hurried into the shadows projected from the Opera House. It reminded her of the vampire novels that were so popular nowadays.

They walked together hand and hand down the street, talking of the weather, and music; and window-shopping. Several women passed them, their eyes lingering a bit too long on Erik's mask for Christine's taste. She leaned into him so close that he had to wrap his arm around her waist, a strict warning that her angel was off limits. She noticed how he shook at the closeness, trying desperately not to run from the unimaginable displays of affection.

Erik stopped at a window of a wedding gown parlor. He stared at a white ball gown with long, lace sleeves, champagne sash, and turtleneck collar.

"It's beautiful," Christine said.

"What did you do with my dress for you?" Erik asked monotonously.

"It's sitting on my bed at home. It was ruined when-." Christine paused, contemplating if she should go on.

"When what, Christine? I can take it."

"Let's not talk about this now, Erik. Let's just enjoy the day," she suggested.

"But-."

"Please! Erik, let's just enjoy each other's company at the moment? Alright?" she begged.

Erik sighed and agreed, though obviously very unsatisfied and unhappy with Christine's hesitance. She squeezed his hand comfortingly.

"Let's walk to the park, Erik- maybe stop by a marketplace beforehand and pick up some bread, cheeses, fruits, and wine, and make it a picnic. I have money with me, so we should be able to pick up a basket and blanket as well," she offered.

Erik smiled softly. "That sounds lovely."

* * *

"Aww," Christine sighed, "the Champ de Mars. It's been such a long time since I've been here." She twirled around parts of the green belt, avoiding other picnicking couples and families. "Have you ever been here before, Erik?" she asked.

"Not since I first came to Paris almost twenty years ago," he answered, choosing a spot that was separated from the other picnickers by some rose bushes. "At the time, I was a contractor here in Paris, and I was commissioned to build a house in this area. I'd come and eat my lunch here. That was, until I was commissioned to do a very special project." He laid out the picnic blanket he and Christine had bought, and sat down on it. He placed the picnic basket next to him, patting the spot on the opposite side for Christine to sit.

"What project?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

His grin was unseen by Christine as he took out various breads and cheeses from the basket and began peeling an apple. "Why, building the Palais Garnier, of course."

Christine's eyes widened; she turned to stare at him. "Y-you built the Paris Opera House?"

"Who else could've built such a spectacular underground house and river?" he said. "Apple?"

He handed her the freshly peeled apple. "Th-thank you. That's amazing."

"It's a peeled apple," Erik said.

"No! Forget the apple! It's amazing that you were able to build that Opera House. It's spectacular!"

"Well, it's not like I did it alone. The head of the project was Charles Garnier. I gave him all the credit. I just drew up the basic design and put trap doors in every inch of it," he stated modestly.

"Why'd you give him all the credit?" she asked.

"The world has proven to me many a time that it does not want me in it. Let alone famous in it. Had I taken the credit, the world would know of me, of my ugliness, of my talents. I refuse to give this to the world and so I had originally planned to go into hiding immediately after the Opera House's completion, which is precisely what I designed it for and what I did. If I became a famous architect from this project, disappeared from the world, and even one of my trap doors was discovered, it would be suspicious. And then yet again, the horrors of the world would have wiggled themselves into my sanctuary. I did not want that," he explained, slicing the bread and cheese.

Christine was speechless, having nothing that she could say to agree or disagree with his reasoning. She didn't know what to think of it. Erik noticed this.

"What about you?" he changed the subject, handing her a slice of bread with some brie spread across. "You said you had not been to this park in a long while. What were your experiences with this place?"

"Well, after my father died… when I first started taking lessons at the Opera House, in between practices I would come have picnics here by myself. Sometimes I ran into La Sorelli with Meg and Little Jammes and we would all feed the ducks and swans together. We never got closer than that though, I'm afraid. It was such a lonely time in my life, that I thought the sunshine and beautiful surroundings would help lift my spirits," she answered.

"What made you stop?" asked Erik, pulling out a bottle of champagne.

Christine smiled. "I met you," she said, taking a bite of the bread. "This is delicious!"

"Oh yes, I remember. You would run to your dressing room to eat lunch, so we could work on your singing some more," he said, watching her gobble down the bread in the most lady-like fashion she could manage.

Christine finished up her apple and reached for another piece of bread and cheese, whilst Erik popped open the champagne. He only poured one glass, which he handed to Christine. She raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to eat, Erik?" she asked.

"I have to remove my mask to eat," he answered.

"So? Remove your mask then," she said.

"I can't! We're in public. Someone could see."

"Not if we do this," Christine said, pushing Erik onto his back so he was completely hidden by the bushes.

She lay down beside him, so if anyone walked by them they would only see the bodies of a cuddling couple and not their faces. She put her fingers on the edges of his mask, moving it up just below the hole where his nose should be. She pulled a cluster of concord grapes from the picnic basket. She plucked a couple from the cluster and dropped them into Erik's mouth.

"Swallow carefully, we don't want you choking," she said.

She fed him several slices of bread and fruit and helped him lean up, blocking anyone's view of his horrifying face. She poured another glass of champagne, handed it to Erik and grabbed her own. They clanked their glasses lightly together before taking sips of them.

"This is delicious," Christine said, "though the one I found in your cabinet was even better."

"It was older, a 1786, I believe," he said.

"1786! That must have cost a fortune!"

"It isn't the oldest I have. I have a delicious Persian wine I received from the Shah of Persia for building a palace for him. The wine was, I believe, a 1652."

"That must be delicious!" Christine said.

"I wouldn't know… I have not tasted it."

"Why not? If I were you, I would have drunk it long ago," she said.

"I was saving it for a… special night."

"What night?" she asked.

He hesitated before whispering inaudibly, _"Our wedding night."_

"Our what?" she asked, not hearing him.

"Our wedding night!" he growled.

"Oh, I see."

"Not originally though; originally I was to drink it after I finished Don Juan Triumphant. Then I would go to bed with the piece and never wake up, but you know that much. Then, I fell in love with you, and my plans changed completely. I wanted to live a normal life with you after I finished. We would drink that wine together before- before-." Erik realized he probably shouldn't say it.

"Before what, Erik?"

He said nothing.

"Erik, before what?"

"Before we consummated our marriage," he stated, ashamedly.

"E-Erik-."

"I know it's only in my wildest dreams that something like that would happen, but I couldn't help but dream. I would've been happy just sharing the wine with you for our marriage, but it was that final action that I so longed and dreamed for."

Christine could not comfort him with such a topic. Yes, she cared for him deeply, loved him deeply, but… sleeping with him just seemed unimaginable at this point. She so desperately wanted to give him hope by saying, "Dreams can come true Erik, we've proved that," or "It's not so unimaginable," or even "I love you, and if that is what you want, it is what I want as well." But she just couldn't, for the hope would be false and would only lead to sadness and disappointment. She may never be ready to give herself physically to him. Never.

Christine leaned against him comfortingly, a gesture Erik full-heartedly understood. She wanted to comfort him, make sure he felt that he was not alone, but knew she could not agree or disagree with him. She was trying to turn him down easy, trying not to hurt his feelings. Her attempt was unsuccessful.

"Erik-."

"Say nothing Christine, you'll say something neither of us want to hear. I know what point you are trying to get across, my dear. And it has been understood."

"N-no, Erik-."

"Please do not tell me what you think I want to hear. Your lying to me will do neither of us any good."

"I'm- I'm so sorry," she said.

"Do not be, my dear. I knew it already. No one could possible make love to ugly, old Erik. It is an impossible thought."

"But Erik-."

"Please, Christine. Just do not say anything on the topic. Please."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes in shame. Just when he was enjoying the day and growing able to accept compassion, she just had to let her vanity get in the way of things.

"Christine," Erik said.

"Y-yes Erik?"

"Tell me. What ruined your wedding gown?" he asked.

"N-no Erik, it is an inappropriate time for this now. Let's just try to enjoy ourselves now." she said.

"No Christine, it is eating away at me. Please tell me. Please! Please!"

Christine sighed, knowing it was impossible to avoid the topic any longer. She just wished he could've chosen a better, not so conflicting and emotional time, to revisit the topic.

"Erik, you will not like what you hear," she said, trying to avoid it just one more time.

"I do not care, please tell me."

"…Alright," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Too Early**

**A/N: Woah! Sorry about the wait you guys, I have most of the story figured out and several chapter already pre-written on my computer, it's just taking the time to edit them that takes so long. Not to mention the fact that I got a new beta after already posting chapters so I had to re-do them all, further halting the process. Don't worry people, I'm not abandoning this story or fandom ANY time soon. Enjoy the chapter!**

Chapter 4

_"Erik, you will not like what you hear," she said, trying to avoid it just one more time._

_"I do not care. Please, tell me."_

_"…Alright," she said._

Christine sighed. "After you released Raoul and that we were able to marry, we were afraid you would change your mind if we did not leave quickly. We didn't even bother using the boat in fear that you would pull one of us under using your reed trick. Instead, we just went through the lake on our feet. We didn't want to run into anyone- we just wanted to leave without having to say our goodbyes or deal with Raoul's disapproving parents. So we went straight through where the lake goes into the sewers. We also figured that you wouldn't have guessed we'd use this route so we'd hit two birds with one stone. We've been in hiding for the last two weeks, staying at an inn at the edge of the city, waiting for the Persian to tell us that you were- you were-."

"I was what?"

She bit her lip, holding back tears. "That you were dead! There, I said it! We were waiting until we knew you were dead: that way, I could fulfill my promise to you- bury you, return the wedding ring, and say goodbye to you for good! After that, Raoul and I planned to flee the country to Sweden or Germany, perhaps, and elope."

Erik said nothing.

"Erik- Erik, I'm sorry. I told you that you wouldn't like it."

Silence.

"Erik, talk to me!"

Silence.

"I am so, so sorry Erik! You know the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you-."

"No, Christine, I do not know that; because it would seem that the FIRST thing that you always do is hurt me," he growled, pulling his mask down over his lips, covering his whole face.

"Erik, please-."

"No, Christine, I forgot the true reason why you returned to me in the first place. I was so distracted with the way that you acted towards me. It was foolish to think that you thought so highly of me all of a sudden," he said, standing up and pushing away Christine's comforting hold.

He stormed away in the direction of the Paris Opera House. Christine followed after him frantically, completely forgetting about the picnic set up.

"Erik, stop walking away and just talk to me!"

They walked all the way back to the Opera House, Erik saying nothing; Christine begging him to talk to her and understand her point of view.

"Please, Erik! Please just listen to m-," she said, putting out her left hand to touch his shoulder as he opened the secret entrance.

His hand snapped back and encased Christine's wrist in a cage of iron. She gasped at the momentary sting of his grip. She stared into his eyes, and though his face was momentarily beautiful, his eyes held such anger that Christine found once again that just looking at him brought fear as deep-rooted as hell to her very soul.

Erik, like a beast, snarled only four words: "Where is the ring?"

"Wh-what?"

"You came back to me to return to the ring and bury me, correct? Well, give me the ring, Christine. Fulfill your promise, and then go off and elope with your precious Vicomte de Chagny! Go on! Give me the ring!" he shouted.

Tears flooded her eyes in fear. She had been so happy that her Erik was alive, she had forgotten the reason that she had left in the first place: the fear that he so often struck her with- such bone-shaking, gut-wrenching fear that at this moment made her feel like she was literally being torn in two.

"I don't- I don't-."

"You don't what?" he snapped.

"I don't ha-ha-."

"You don't have it!?" he practically screamed.

"No! I don't want to give it back! Please Erik, let's work through this!"

Erik grabbed the top of her bodice and ripped down the side loudly, allowing not one, but two rings to fall freely onto the ground. Christine scrambled to pick up Raoul's and hide it, but Erik was too quick for her. He held both rings in hand, observing the engagement ring specifically: a large diamond in the middle with twenty-two smaller diamonds surrounding it like flower petals and six more running down the gold band. Raoul had obviously spent more on this ring then he and his older brother had ever donated to the Opera House combined.

"Erik, let me explain!"

"Silence!" he shouted, pulling her harshly by her arm to press up against him.

"Open your hand, Christine," he said, directing his eyes to her closed left fist.

"Er-."

"Open it!"

Christine complied. Erik put the engagement ring in her left hand harshly, and forced her to close her hand tightly, causing the diamonds to dig into the top layers of her skin. She hissed in pain. He then pushed her away with a force that made her fall to the cold, damp ground. She scrambled to get up and run after Erik, but by the time she had risen and recovered from the fall, the hidden door was already closed tightly behind him. She threw herself against the stone, pounding her bleeding fists against it. She was about to call his name when a shadow covered her crouching form. "Christine… Daaé?"

She turned to see the young form of Meg Giry. Her ink black hair was tied back, but several pieces were a tad loose; no doubt from rehearsal, as she was still in her ballet clothes.

"Meg!" she replied.

"Where have you been? You disappeared with the Vicomte de Chagny two weeks ago," she asked.

"Well, I-."

"Everyone came up with a ton of crazy rumors: that you had been killed by the managers, or Phillipe de Chagny, or the Opera Ghost. I figured you probably just ran off to elope with the Vicomte. Is that true?"

"Um, that was the original plan."

The two stared at each other in silence; Meg knowing not what to say, for she had not spoken to Christine that often, and Christine trying to hold back her tears. It was then Meg noticed something running down the young soprano's hand.

"Oh my God, you're bleeding-." She then noticed yet another thing off with Christine. "And the top of your dress is ripped all down the side! Are you okay, Christine!?"

"I-I-."

"Come on, let's get you inside," Meg offered, wrapping her arm around Christine's waist and throwing her non bleeding hand over her shoulder.

"N-no Meg! I don't want to see anyone in the Opera House. I left so I wouldn't have to say goodbye!" she begged.

"Well, that's too bad. You're bleeding and everyone inside thinks you're dead and have been worried sick. Well, most are. Carlotta didn't really care, but Maman doesn't ever silence herself about her worry for you."

"Madame Giry was worried about me?" she asked, Meg practically dragging her to the back door of the Opera House.

"Well, about you and the Opera Ghost," she answered, opening the door and slipping through it quietly. "We'll go to my dorm room. I know a secret entrance that will keep you from being mobbed by everyone."

She tapped her foot on a couple of the floor boards before one wiggled in the oddest fashion. She slid the toe of her point shoe in it and pushed, the board sliding away with ease and opening up a passageway big enough only for two people. The two slipped through before Meg fixed the floor board above their heads. The path before them was narrow, and the ceiling (or floor depending how you look at it) was not even an inch higher than the girl's heads.

"How'd you find this?" Christine asked, running her hands along the stone walls she knew only Erik could have made.

"It's not the first secret passageway or secret trap door I have found, though it is by far the most convenient. I actually found it by accident from my room when I was rosining my shoes."

"Oh, I see-."

Meg quickly covered Christine's mouth before whispering in her ear, "We're right under the managers' office." She pointed to a trap door above their heads from which a slap of sunlight shone through the cracks. "Tread quietly."

The ballerina got onto her toes, Christine following suit. Unfortunately, not having her point shoes on made the walk a bit more painful. She was relieved when Meg gave her a sign that she could walk normally. They walked for another minute or two before Meg stopped and looked up.

"Here we are," she stated, pointing to pink ribbon between the floorboards above them.

She reached up and dug her fingernails into the crevice that held the ribbon. She shoved up her palms, fingers still in place, causing the loose boards to pop up. She shoved through the rest of her fingers and let out a groan as she pushed, the boards sliding just as the others had. She moved to the other tightly fastened floor boards and effortlessly and gracefully pulled herself onto them; landing, legs crossed and proper, looking down to Christine.

Christine had always admired how utterly graceful Meg Giry had always been- like a gazelle, especially compared to her own clumsiness. She had always known that dancing was not her finest skill, but at the time of her arrival at the Opera House, neither was her singing; so she had dove into her dancing as much as possible. Even then, she wasn't half the dancer Meg had turned out to be.

Meg moved to sit on her knees and lean forward, grabbing Christine by her wrists and pulling. The soprano jumped and climbed the stone walls beneath her as she was hoisted up by the younger girl. Once she was out, she moved out of the way so Meg could replace the floorboards and ribbon. As she did this, Christine slipped Raoul's engagement ring into the valley of her cleavage so as to hide it.

"Alright," Meg said, wiping off her hands. "Let me see your hand, first of all."

Christine revealed the palm of her hand to Meg, where a small but deep cut was placed and continued to ooze blood. "My God, Christine, that is an awful cut. Let me grab some bandages," she said, walking to her vanity mirror and pulling open random drawers.

"Sit on the bed," she commanded as she continued to shuffle through drawers.

She did as she was told. Meg walked over when she finally found the bandages, as well as a wooden bowl. She set the bowl next to Christine before reaching behind her head board and pulling out a bottle of whiskey, which she firmly told Christine not to tell her mother about. She grabbed a towel from the floor and pressed it against Christine's hand to absorb some of the blood and examine the wound.

"I think it's just small enough to not need stitches, but it is pretty deep. We should definitely clean it and change the bandages often," she said, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into the bowl until it was more than halfway full.

"I warn you Christine- this will hurt a lot. Just don't make a sound, alright?"

"Okay," Christine said, bracing herself.

Meg submerged Christine's hand completely in the alcohol, earning a small cry, like that of a kicked puppy. She bit her lip at the feeling of her very hand being ripped apart from the inside. The clear fluid quickly turned red from her blood.

"Just one minute more, Christine," she said, noticing the tears of pain sliding down her face. "What happened to you anyway?"

"I had an… accident. Tripped and fell," she answered quickly.

Though she didn't in the slightest believe it, Meg let it slide. For now.

"What are you even doing back, since you and the Vicomte planned to elope?" she asked.

"I came back to fulfill a promise to a friend," Christine said, her head down.

"Well, you are going to have to explain that to everyone here; they all thought you were murdered. The biggest suspect is the Opera Ghost since the accidents stopped after your disappearance… Well, kind of," she said.

"What do you mean, kind of?" she asked, as Meg removed her hand from the bowl of alcohol and thoroughly dried it with the towel.

Meg sighed as she began wrapping Christine's currently blood-free wound, "Well, while the Opera Ghost is always a suspect, especially where you are involved, he wasn't the prime suspect of your disappearance. It was actually Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny, since he went missing around the same time you did."

"But," she urged on.

"But," she hesitated, "his corpse was found a week ago."


	5. Chapter 5

Too Early

**A/N: Well, all you Phantom fans, today officially marks the end of PHANTOM: THE LAS VEGAS SPECTACULAR. Last night was its last show ever! TT_TT I was lucky enough to have parents awesome enough to drive me to Vegas from Southern California just to go see it last month during its final run. Though I was thoroughly depressed that I was unable to get Anthony Crivello's autograph for he was an absolutely fabulous Phantom and really reminded me of Leroux Phantom. He was very powerful and was the perfect age for the role. I cried during the All I Ask of You Reprise. He also adds quite a bit of humor to the role which is really nice to see. If you ever have the chance, look him up on youtube, he is by far one of my favorites. And on that note, here's the new chapter.**

**Chapter V**

Christine's eyes widened. "H-his corpse?"

"Yes, it was found at the shores of the lake under the Opera House the day after you disappeared. We found out from the autopsy that he had been strangled and drowned at the same time. There is no evidence that points to who did it though. Isn't that so bizarre?" Meg explained.

She gulped. "Y-yeah, truly bizarre."

"The strangest part is that a part of his jacket was ripped, the missing piece found in the intersecting sewers that run under the Opera House! Is that not insanity? That means that he was killed here in the Opera House!" she said excitedly, being ever the fan of gossip.

Christine gulped, for she knew exactly who had done it and how. All she wanted to know was why? What could Erik possibly have to gain from Philippe's death? If anything, it was better to keep him alive, due to his disapproval of her and Raoul's love.

A knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts and Meg out of her actions. She quickly hid the whiskey under the bed before asking who was at the door.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It is Little Jammes! I was hoping you could help me with the bridesmaids' scene in act three of Der Freischütz before practice," she answered.

"I'm actually in the middle of something right now, but I promise to help you individually during practice," she answered.

"Alright," she called, before walking to her own room, "see you then!"

"So," Christine asked, "you're doing a production of Der Freischütz?"

"Yes, Carlotta is very excited that she has not been harassed out of being the head Prima Donna." She laughed, beginning to wrap Christine's hand.

"I'm curious though- why does she not just ask La Sorelli for help?"

Meg giggled. "Aww, yet another addition to the great scandal." This earned an odd look from Christine. "La Sorelli is out on maternity leave."

Her eyes widened. "Maternity leave?"

"Yes!" she squealed. "With Philippe de Chagny's child! They were having secret excursions together his entire stay here in Paris before he died!"

"My God, and I thought they were just 'on terms'!"

Christine found it absolutely ironic that the man who said having a relationship with a woman of theatre and peasant birth was shameful; was now leaving his legacy with the bastard child of a ballerina.

Meg laughed. "I would say on _**very good **_terms. Anyway, it actually works in my favor. Do not get me wrong, La Sorelli is like family to me; but with her out of the picture for the moment, the managers have named me Prima Ballerina! My name's on the poster and at the very top of programs: Der Freischütz, Romeo and Juliet, Barber of Seville… All of them say: starring La Carlotta and Meg Giry! Oh, it truly is a wonderful feeling, Christine!"

"Yes, I know," she stated solemnly, as Meg finished wrapping her hand.

Meg obviously did not recognize the sadness in her tone. "At any rate, it's hard to believe you would give that up just for Raoul de Chagny."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't think Raoul is worth it?"

"Are you kidding? No! Do not get me wrong, Christine; he's handsome, rich, and pretty much the perfect man for any Frenchwoman. But people like you and me are not just _**any **_Frenchwomen. We're performers!" Meg suddenly corrected herself for speaking for them both. "I mean, if it's not your opinion, it is mine at least. Even as just a dancer with, as it seems, just a brief moment of fame compared to the sopranos, I would not give up my limelight and fame for _**any **_good catch or title in the world!"

"That is true," Christine said, helping Meg put away the medical supplies.

"But surely you have at least a similar state of mind as me, for you are back here. Is that not the reason?" she asked.

"That is most definitely one of the reasons," she answered.

Suddenly the door to the dressing room opened, causing both Meg and Christine to jump and scream. Mme. Giry stood in the doorway, equally frightened, but by the sheer sudden loudness of the two.

"My God, Meg, why would you-!" She silenced as she noticed the girl next to her daughter.

"Christine Daaé?" she almost screamed, earning hushes from both girls.

"Could you possibly be any louder, Maman?" Meg growled, closing the door behind the elder woman.

"What are you doing here? You disappeared! Everyone thought you to-!"

"Maman, she knows," Meg interrupted. "I already gave her all the details."

"Well, if that's the case, then we have no time to lose. Come, Ms. Daae, you need to speak with the managers right away," Mme. Giry said, grabbing Christine by her wrist and guiding her to the door.

"W-why? About what?" she asked.

"About where you have been, what has happened, and what is _**to **_happen," she answered.

"Maman, I believe that is probably the last thing she wants to do right now," Meg piped in.

"That is irrelevant; it is the first thing she must do. Everyone thinks her to be dead, which has left many loose ends untied, and we must figure out what is to be done with them before we take any further actions with _**any **_aspect of this Opera House. It is her responsibility as a member, former or otherwise, of this company," she snapped.

Christine sighed. "You are right; I suppose there is no point running from my problems anymore, since I am here."

"Good girl," she said, patting the young soprano's head.

"Yes, good indeed!" Meg said. "I'll just come along with you two and-!"

"No, no, no, no Meg. I do not care how good the gossip is for you and your little friends, this is a personal matter of Ms. Daae's, which in no way concerns you. Besides, you need to be down at the stage in less than five minutes for rehearsal and class; or did you forget your promise you made to your friend, Cecile Jammes?"

Meg, at that moment, cursed her mother's bat-like hearing before storming out the room, tying her raven hair into a smoother, tight bun.

Mme. Giry shook her head disapprovingly, waiting for her daughter to be out of earshot, which was exponentially a greater distance than any other normal girl's hearing range, before saying, "A drama queen that one is; seems that all that goes through her mind is scandal and dance." She looked down at Christine. "Well, let us go then."

While leading Christine down the empty halls, she noticed a strange feeling along her palm. She moved Christine's hand into her vision, observing the bandages wrapped tightly around it. As she looked closer she noticed a darker coloration near the center of her hand that she recognized to be a stain. A _**blood **_stain.

"What happened to your hand?" Mme. Giry asked, in a way that sounded like it was obligation as opposed to true concern.

"I fell and lodged a rock up into my palm," she answered.

It wasn't a _lie_ per say.

"I see," Mme. Giry said, not entirely believing her, but not interested enough to argue.

At this point, the two were at the grand staircase, heading to the East wing of the Opera House where the managers' office was located. Several ballerinas and chorus girls were in this particular spot at the time, going through the house doors for rehearsal. Several stopped and stared, whispering to each other things such as, "Is that…?" "No, it can't be…" "Yes, that is definitely her!" "No way-!" This thoroughly irritated Mme. Giry.

"Yes, it is she!" she snapped. "Christine Daaé! Now get to rehearsal!"

The girls quickly hurried through the doors, either out of fear of Mme. Giry, or excitement to tell the others girls of the latest scandal. Christine could already imagine Meg proudly proclaiming her even further knowledge of the situation, and bragging about how much longer she had possessed the information.

Christine didn't even realize that they were already at the Managers' office until Mme. Giry was opening the double doors, revealing the disorganized work-room to her. Richard and Moncharmin, who sat at their individual desks across from each other going over work, looked up at the sudden intrusion. Their eyes widened and they jumped up, almost in unison as they noticed a certain soprano they had thought they'd never see again.

"Ms. Daae-?"

"What on Earth-?"

Neither woman knew who said what, due to their speaking at once.

"Yes, she has returned." Mme. Giry stated the obvious before the managers could. "The reason, I do not know. But, in her return, she has agreed to speak to you about the past events and what action is to be taken in both her career and the general well-being of the Opera House."

"Very well," Moncharmin stated, sitting on the edge of both desks and pointing to the chair in front of him. "Please sit."

"Mme. Giry, if you do not mind, please shut and lock the doors; we do not need any further leaking of information to feed our casts' lust for scandal," Richard said, sitting in his own chair at his side of the desk.

"Of course, sir," both women said, following their individual requests.

"What would you like to know…? Messieurs?" Christine asked, running her hands nervously across her knees.

"Well, let's begin with: where have you been for the last two weeks? There have been few disasters in your absence, but a few nonetheless, and we want to know of your involvement with them," Richard answered.

"Meg Giry told me that the day I went missing, Philippe de Chagny's body was found. I guarantee I had nothing to do with it, Messieurs."

"Well, we assumed that much," Moncharmin said. "He had been dead for at least three days before he was found, so we do not believe that was why you ran away."

"We just want to know where you have been for the last two weeks," Richard piped in.

"We were in hiding at the edge of Paris. We were planning to leave the country soon to elope; we weren't sure exactly where we were to go. We just wanted to leave," Christine said.

"Why did you wait such a great deal of time to leave and not just take the next ship out of here?" asked Richard.

"We had some unfinished business to attend to- ties to cut, things of that sort. Oh! Which reminds me, it would seem since I am here, I should probably give you this directly," she said, pulling an envelope from her bodice, which she had forgotten was ripped; no doubt the managers and Mme. Giry had failed to notice this before, for they now stared at her in shock.

She handed Moncharmin the thick envelope, and he hastily grabbed his letter opener and ripped into it. His eyes widened and he let out a shout of shock as he pulled from the envelope several thousand valued franc notes.

"Since Raoul would no longer be able to be the Opera House's patron, he wanted to make sure the Opera House was well off before he abandoned it. Right there is a total sum of one hundred thousand francs, half of which is to be used to pay off all the damage done by… Him, including replacing the chandelier and replacing any money he has stolen from you."

Moncharmin and Richard obviously did not care the reasoning behind the generous donation; they were too busy celebrating it. Christine had been hesitant to use the word "stealing" when speaking of the Phantom's extortion of a monthly twenty-thousand francs, especially with Mme. Giry in the room, but she could think of no other way of putting it. As she had expected, Mme. Giry shook her head in disapproval.

Neither Christine nor Raoul knew exactly how much Erik had exactly extracted from the managers or if he returned it or not. Either way, they knew it was at least twenty thousand francs and felt the need to tidy up the mess left behind and allow Erik a peaceful death due to his generosity.

"Some of that money was also to be used to make up for you losing one of your lead sopranos, since we were to run away from here, but it would seem now that that money is just an add-on to the half which you are to spend as you see fit," Christine continued.

This halted their celebrating long enough for them to give the young soprano a confused look. Mme. Giry joined in and stared as well. Christine exhaled slowly, building up her strength to say what she knew she needed to say.

"If it is alright with you two, I would very much like to abandon my plans of running away, and stay and sing for the company once more," she said.

xXx

**A/N: And chapter five is officially complete! I hope you enjoyed it! ^_^ I'd say cliffhanger but it would seem all my chapters up to this point have been cliffhangers in at least in some form or another. Lol Remember people! Reviews are love! More Reviews= Faster Updates! See you next chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Too Early**

**A/N: Gah! So sorry this took so long to put up! With eight classes, string orchestra, and voice lessons it's really hard to get time for fanfiction! However now it's summer so I'll have more time to write! Plus, I don't think I've ever gotten to chapter 6 of a fanfiction. Lol XD Enjoy!**

Chapter VI

The managers and Mme. Giry stared at Christine in shock. Richard nearly dropped his share of franc notes to the floor.

"W-what precisely do you mean, Ms. Daaé?"

"Are you abandoning your engagement to the Vicomte?" asked Moncharmin.

"Y-yes, at least for now. I have, as of late, had far too many doubts to go through with it. It's not that I don't love Raoul- truly I do- but I believe I need time to think about it; and right now, I do not believe I am ready to stop being a soprano, when my career has only just begun." Christine got onto her knees and dipped her head to touch her hands. "So please, Messieurs; please accept me back as part of the company, even if just as a chorus girl or dancer. I will take any position you have to offer."

Richard and Moncharmin looked to each other nervously before shifting their eyes to the begging girl at their feet.

Mme. Giry suddenly piped in. "Ms. Daaé, I think the managers need some time to think about this. How about we go and get you cleaned up and changed, and then we'll return this evening for their decision."

The managers sighed in relief and mouthed silent gratitude to the concierge who was currently lifting Christine from the ground and guiding her to the door by her shoulders. She mouthed back "you're welcome," before closing the door behind Christine and herself. The managers waited to speak again until they could no longer hear the women's footsteps.

Moncharmin looked at Richard and sighed. "What should we do?"

Richard rubbed his temples. "I don't know."

"We've been practically accident free for the past two weeks- no Opera Ghosts, no extorting money, and Carlotta has finally agreed to sing for us again! If we bring back Ms. Daaé, it might all start up again!"

"Yes, but Ms. Daaé is also one of the most profitable sopranos in Paris," Richard stated. "Not only because of her supreme vocal talent, but because of all the gossip surrounding her name. People would pay a fortune to see the very woman who was the subject to the famous "Opera Ghost's" love and devotion."

"But what about Carlotta? She'll surely leave out of fear of being yet again upstaged and tormented," Moncharmin pointed out, earning a groan from his business partner.

"It seems no matter what we do, we cannot win, can we?"

"No Richard… no, we can't. No matter what we do, we lose. We just need to decide what we are willing _**to **_lose."

xXx

Mme. Giry led Christine through the hallways of the dressing rooms and dormitories. These halls were less crowded than before, due to rehearsals, but still there was the occasional gossiper who snickered to her companions about the scandalous soprano passing them. She was relieved when they finally arrived at the desired location: the costume room; which, fortunately, was completely void of anyone but the costumes and themselves.

"Well, let's find you something to wear," Mme. Giry said, rummaging through the bottomless bins of clothing.

Christine nodded, sitting awkwardly at one of the vanity mirrors. She took the opportunity to look at herself in the mirror, something she knew she would regret. The top of her dress was practically ripped in half, and part of her corset as well, immodestly showing skin from the base of her breast and her waist; no wonder she had gotten more snickers then sympathy. She looked like a harlot living in the slums. Her eyes were puffy, covered in dirt and dry tears; and her usual soft, blonde curls were frizzy and bunched together unattractively.

Still, for as awful as she looked, she felt even worse. She couldn't help but feel like she deserved this and so much more. She should've persisted, she could've held off Erik's curiosities just a bit longer, long enough for her to break it to him more slowly and gently. Now, she could just imagine her hideous angel, lying in that coffin of his, waiting for sweet death to take him from suffering- suffering that Christine had brought back upon him. A thought struck her mind. What if he no longer cared about a dramatic, torment-filled death, but just wanted something quick? Clean? And yet still showed his skills?

What if he was swaying back in forth due to the momentum of his body weight, the only thing holding him up six inches off the ground the Punjab lasso? She remembered Buquet's hung corpse- what a horrible sight it had been: tongue sticking out, eye balls bulging out of their sockets, blood and saliva dripping from his mouth. Just the thought of that expression on her already horribly deformed angel's face was enough to make her vomit, barely making it to the wastebasket.

"Ms. Daaé!"Mme. Giry rushed to her side and held her hair.

Christine coughed as she tried to compose herself. "It would seem that I am feeling a tad under the weather."

Mme. Giry sighed, putting a blanket over her shoulders. "Let me find you something to wear and then we can clean you up in the washrooms. I hope you don't mind me saying it, but you need it."

She forced a laugh. "I do not mind in the slightest."

**xXx**

Christine dipped her fingers into the steaming water, the muscles already loosening from such brief contact.

"Is it warm enough?" asked Mme. Giry, placing a towel on the stand next to the tub.

"Yes, it's perfect," she answered.

"Alright, I'll be in the parlor room right outside if you need me," Mme. Giry said, closing the door behind her.

Christine pulled Raoul's engagement ring from her bodice and set it on the tray adorned with soaps and bath oils next to her. She dropped the tattered clothes to the floor and slowly lowered herself into the bath. She sighed in bliss as the warmth incased her body. She reached over and grabbed a glass bottle labeled _shampoo_. She uncorked the top and poured some of the solution into her palm, inhaling the strong lavender scent before lathering it deep into her blonde curls. She could practically feel herself scraping off the thick layers of dirt from her scalp.

She sighed. It felt like forever since she had last had a bath. It had been at least two days. She never wanted to go that long again. She inhaled a large breath and plugged her nose before dropping under the surface of the water. Without knowing why, she opened her eyes, instantly regretting it; because suddenly, she was staring into orbs of yellow. She shot up panting and snapping her head back and forth looking for the owner.

The room was empty. The only sounds were her rapid breathing and the water splashing out of the tub.

She dropped her head into her palms. "I'm going mad," she cried.

**xXx**

Christine walked out of the bathroom clad in the silk robe Mme. Giry had left for her. Her hair was wrapped up tight in the towel on her head. The concierge, who had been sitting on the parlor room's sofa, looked up from the newspaper she was reading to the blonde's now clean form.

"Oh good, you're out. Come child, rid yourself of the robe and towel so we may properly dress you."

She did as asked, setting both materials neatly on the arm of the couch. With the Mme. Giry's help, she stepped into the legs of the drawers and chemise combination garment she had pulled out for her. She slipped her arms back into the sleeves and keeping them wide open so Mme. Giry could button the front easily.

"Arms up," Mme. Giry commanded as she buckled the steel bustle at the top of her hips.

The blonde raised her arms as Mme. slipped a corset around her torso, lacing it quickly and expertly. She guided Christine over to the vanity mirror and desk. She bent over on instinct, her hands gripping tightly at the edge of the desk for support as Mme. Giry pulled back the straps with all of her strength.

"Hold on tight, dear," she warned.

Christine tightened her grip as she felt Mme. Giry's boot against her back, the pressure straightening out her posture and at the same time constricting her breathing further. She suddenly felt her stomach drop, the nerves in her head constrict, and a revolting sour taste in the back of her throat. She lifted a hand over her mouth so as to push the taste back down.

"M-Mme. Giry, s-stop please. I feel terribly nauseated," she gasped.

The concierge turned her around and placed the back of her hand against her forehead. "Dear, it would seem you have a light fever. You need to rest. Where will you be staying?"

"I-I do not know. I cannot go back to Raoul yet and I haven't the money to rent a room. Could I perhaps stay in the dormitories for a night?" she asked, trying not to think of the house across the lake where she longed to stay.

"No dear. Right now you are not a part of the company, so you cannot. Is there any other place that you could possibly stay?" Giry answered, slipping a dusty rose dress on over her head.

Christine sighed. "I do suppose there is one other place."

**xXx**

Persian sat silently in his study, a large, leather bound art book in his hands. He flipped through the pages, admiring the extremely skilled art work that each page contained. Such beauty expressed in different charcoals and pigments- they seemed to come to life. This was the work of a genius, the work of Erik.

Erik had had a fascinating mind, especially when it came to his art. The page he was on contained an image of a horrible monster with thousands of sharp teeth and long talons on each of its forty fingers and toes, which adorned the extra limbs of the lion-like body. The beast was so horrifying, yet so realistic; it sent shivers down his spine.

Yet when he turned the page, there was an image of a young, beautiful woman with dark skin, and long, ebony hair that fell down to her hips. She wore long, nearly see-through robes and stood tall and seductive as she danced barefoot, adorned with many thick jewels and bangles down her arms and legs. She held a tambourine up high above her head, which she played happily. Her eyes were dark as she looked to the observer with extremely realistic passion. It was hard to remember she was still a drawing.

Yes, the Persian remembered this book very well. These drawing were all done by Erik through his twenties and early thirties. The last drawing in the book was a full design of the Paris Opera House, catacombs and all. He remembered clearly how the musician had given it to him. He had brought Erik to his new flat in Paris for lunch.

The man had scoffed and said_, "To think you would follow Erik so far, and to give up your place in the palace for a place such as this. Were my designs not to your liking, Daroga? I never knew you enjoyed the sloppy, amateur look."_

"_It may not be extravagant, but it will suffice," he had replied._

_Erik had tsked and shook his head in disapproval before pulling out his art book and a large box of different shaded charcoals. "That simply just won't do." He flipped to an open page and caught one of the pieces in his skeletal fingers. "I shall personally fix this place up for you."_

_For the next thirty minutes, Erik sat concentrating; sketching with such speed and grace the Daroga could hardly keep up. When the drawing was at last complete, he dropped the book with a slam onto the coffee table with a triumphant "Finis!"_

_He had admired the astounding detail with wide-eyes: at the array of colors and unique setups and arches, and the somehow Persian vibe to the whole thing. He especially enjoyed the study, a room Erik had knowingly titled: the Sacred Grounds. Ah, he knew him so well._

"_This is astonishing!"_

"_Did you expect any less from the great architect and designer: Erik, builder of the maze of mirrors?"_

_He had chuckled. "No, not at all. May I keep this?"_

"_For the time being, yes. But I will come back for the book one day," he had answered._

He never did.

"Master?" his servant asked, entering the Daroga's Erik-designed office.

"What is it, Darius?"

"There are two ladies at the door for you. One of them is especially young and beautiful, master," he answered.

The Persian rolled his eyes as he walked past Darius out of the study and down the hall, leaving the book open on his sofa. He opened the door and the first woman to meet his eyes was a woman in her early sixties with white hair tied back into a tight bun. Nothing at all familiar or unusual about her, but then he had to double-take at the girl next to her.

"Ms. Daaé!" he shouted, as he saw the all too familiar soprano standing before him.


End file.
